


No Longer Burn

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-14
Updated: 2008-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank had never looked at Gerard's wings with longing, and he didn't avoid touching them; scratching the base and combing his fingers through the feathers, fingers pressing against the thin robust bones underneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Longer Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovebashed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebashed/gifts).



> Ficletish thing for lovebashed 's birthday, who is the only person I'd ever write Frank/Gerard for. She loves them, and she loves wings, so this is what I ended up with. ILU ♥.

There are two diagonal scars on Frank's back, marking the spots where his wings jutted out a lifetime ago. Gerard is fascinated by them; he's memorized their shape and color and he could pinpoint their exact location even if Frank were dressed; even if Frank weren't in front of him. He's only touched the scars once while Frank was awake, and he doesn't intend to try again, even though he'd really like to. Frank had seemed uncomfortable with it, even though he'd offered his bare back to Gerard, and shivered at the touch. Frank's head was bent, lower lip caught between his teeth and his skin felt cold. 

"Sorry," Gerard had said, and moved his palms to Frank's lower back and he could feel Frank's body relax immediately. Gerard hadn't been able to stop staring at the scars after that. Touching them had made the base of Gerard's own wings tickle as if someone were breathing on them, close and private. Like an interrupted whisper he wanted to hear the rest of.

"I don't regret it, you know," Frank had said, and Gerard knew he meant it. Frank had never looked at Gerard's wings with longing, and he didn't avoid touching them; scratching the base and combing his fingers through the feathers, fingers pressing against the thin robust bones underneath. 

Gerard still touches the scars when Frank is asleep; thumb stroking the darker pigment, trying to summon an imagine of what Frank's wings looked like. It's not fair, he thinks, that Frank gets to see all of him all the time, but that such an integral part of Frank is hidden to him. Gerard can't help but feel like if Frank wanted him to, Gerard would be able to see them, even if it was just in his head. 

"They're not a part of me anymore," Frank had said with a shrug when Gerard had figured it out, eyes wide with the realization that the reason Gerard didn't blend into the scenery when it came to Frank was because he used to be one, too. Gerard doesn't once ask what it feels like. He can't imagine what it would be like to not see brown feathers at the corner of his vision, to have the weight balancing his posture and reminding him of why he's different and why he's not. He doesn't want to imagine what it'd be like. Gerard thinks they've been lost, the wings. He doesn't know how they could dematerialize by choice. He's convinced that if Frank just looked harder he could get them back, somehow. But he doesn't try, doesn't seem to want to. 

Frank said, "I don't even remember much of it." Gerard still believes he lied. As if it were that simple; as if it could be that simple.

There must've been a reason why Frank found him to begin with; a reason why Frank looks at Gerard's wings as if they were familiar to him. He refuses to believe it's something you could forget. Frank still sleeps back up, or on his side, he still squints into the sun whenever there is a descent. He forgets that he needs to sleep, and sometimes, sometimes it's like he's in Gerard's head. Like he knows the order that Gerard's thoughts come in, and can predict in which direction Gerard will glance. 

"There isn't anything to 'get'," Frank says one morning over coffee as Gerard squints at him, failing at seeming unconcerned. There are dark rings under Frank's eyes, and he keeps rubbing his face. Frank yawns, and picks some of the toast from Gerard's plate. Gerard tries not to look at Frank's hands, the lines and fingerprints foreign to him. Gerard knows it's part of being human, all this, but it's still enough to make him concerned. Frank's voice is raspy and piqued when he says, "You should know that logic's overrated. There isn't a reason or an explanation for everything. It doesn't matter, or at least it shouldn't." 

Gerard pushes his plate to Frank's side, and lets the tone of his voice slide off his back. That Frank says anything at all when he doesn't ask is enough for Gerard to believe that Frank is wrong. He's just not looking hard enough, neither of them are.

The way Gerard pictures Frank's wings such a dark blue they're almost black, an oily shine to them, but the texture as soft as that of Frank's hair. Like Frank himself, giving the appearance of being menacing while in reality being the opposite. Maybe if he can depict them properly they'll re-appear. Gerard tries to draw wings on Frank's back one night, when he has passed out from exhaustion. His face is burrowed into the single pillow he keeps, skin glowing in the dusky light. The markers are cheap; there is no variation in the breadth of the lines no matter how Gerard holds them, and it takes them too long to dry. It doesn't stop Gerard from marking Frank's skin with an intricate design of interlocking feathers cascading down his shoulders and rounding his waist. It's still nowhere good enough; nothing like what Gerard sees in his head and hopes is real--was real, once. 

Frank turns before the drawing has dried, and half of Gerard's drawing bleeds into the sheets. Frank turns back onto his stomach almost instantly, and his back is covered in an unidentifiable blue mess. Gerard doesn't bother trying to clean up the mess or wipe it off; he covers Frank's back with his own wings, spreading them out as he buries his face next to Frank's. The downy tips of Gerard's wings absorb the blue color as he traces the pattern on Frank's skin as Gerard hopes that the inked forms will be concrete, touchable, once morning comes.


End file.
